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  The Bubble Match

  Merav Tuson Vardy

  Copyright © 2019 Merav Tuson

  All rights reserved; No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author.

  Translation from the Hebrew: Tal Keren

  Contact: [email protected]

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  About the Author

  Message from the Author

  Chapter One

  “So, how many years has it been since you left Korea?”

  I look back at Lee Sung, still dumbfounded by the fact that she is conducting this interview. It’s been four years, but I assume she is perfectly aware of this, seeing as she was the reason I left Korea in the first place. If the current circumstances had been different, I don’t imagine I’d have ever returned.

  “Four,” I respond, crossing my arms apathetically.

  “Wow. We’re so glad to have you back with us,” she is using the plural form, as if the entire nation is standing behind her, but the little nudge of her knee against mine combined with the exaggerated lean-in are meant to signal that she, in particular, was especially glad to see me. My frozen stare probably lets her know that I do not share this sentiment.

  My eyes wander over her unnoticeably. Her body is still impeccably maintained. Her face is smooth like marble, white like milk, unwrinkled and somewhat inhuman. But something about her does seem different. Her features are certainly more doll-like than I remember, which I assume to be the result of a great deal of plastic surgery. Her hair – I can still remember its smell, like peaches, and yet I know that behind this perfection there is a soul so damaged I can barely stand to be in its presence. If I’d known that she would be the one conducting the interview, I’d have done everything in my power to avoid it.

  She’s caught me staring, now, and I quickly shift my glance away from her, toward the cameras. I bow my head in gratitude for the people watching at home, perfectly aware that I’m supposed to say how happy I am to be back, as well – still, I’d rather keep quiet than lie.

  I’d managed to stay out of the spotlight over these past few years and I’m quickly remembering why I hated it so much, the cameras always pointing at me and the undue attention of the media. “Our viewers are wondering whether you are back for good, or simply gracing us with a brief visit to the homeland.”

  “This will not be a brief visit,” I reply succinctly. She seems pleased. I wish this could be a brief visit. From the moment I landed at Incheon International Airport pressure has been crushing my chest like a steamroller.

  “There’ve been rumors about your father’s failing health – have you returned to take over Bubble in his place?”

  I’d been expecting that question. “By now it’s been officially confirmed that my father, the founder and visionary behind Bubble, is currently at the hospital. The family’s only concern at this point is his speedy recovery.” I’m struggling to exude calm, to hide the fact that my father’s days are numbered, that there is no real chance of recovery to be concerned about.

  “I’m sure the viewers at home join all of us here at the studio in wishing him a swift recovery and good health. We’ll take a quick commercial break and be right back with our man of the hour, Kim Ji-Yon.”

  The second the cameras are off she places her hand on my arm and asks, “So how is he, really?”

  “Not good.” I reach for the water bottle on the low table, evading her grip.

  “You’re so mean – haven’t you forgiven me yet?” she pouts. I’m shocked to discover she thought that was ever an option.

  “I know I screwed up, but if you just gave me a second chance, I promise it’ll never happen again – I really want us to get back together,” she’s begging now and her voice is whiny and childish, rendering the scene even more pathetic. I had just taken a sip of water – utter shock nearly propels it out of my nose.

  “A second chance?” I let out a vicious laugh. “I can guarantee that there is absolutely no chance.”

  “Can’t you look past this one tiny indiscretion?” she asks coquettishly.

  “One tiny indiscretion?” I’m furious. Four years’ worth of bottled rage is about to spill out of me, and it will not be pretty.

  “Why are you yelling?” she whines, feigning insult.

  “I’m not yelling, I’m just speaking loudly,” I roar at her. “Let me tell you what it looks like from my perspective, just so we’re finally on the same the page.” I take in a lungful of air and slowly exhale.

  “Up until the moment I found you in our bed, fucking the asshole I’d previously considered my best friend, I was actually certain that you were the one. And seeing how completely I fell for your whole chaste, bashful act,” I sneer, “you can’t really blame me for wanting to hurry things up. So you can imagine what an idiot I felt like, with a diamond in my pocket and my buddy’s cock rammed inside of you.” I’m intentionally being crude and vulgar. Intentionally cold and ruthless.

  I see her eyes widen when she realizes what I’d said. I also realize that until this moment, she had no idea I was about to propose that night. “And another thing, since we’re doing full disclosure – this was supposed to be a happy occasion, so of course, I recorded all of it on Bubble.”

  She pales.

  “Please tell me you’ve… deleted it?” she’s upset enough to stutter. I consider telling her: I didn’t delete the record and, to add insult to injury, I watch it routinely, repeatedly as a reminder to what an idiot I’ve been. It’s X-rated, this record, but watching it provides me with nothing but anger. I’ve been trying to break the habit – I hadn’t watched it in nearly a month, but I keep that to myself, realizing what a pervert that would make me look like to her.

  “I didn’t,” I half-smile, and she flinches.

  “This is exactly what Bubble is for,” I remind her. “To preserve our exact feelings during the most meaningful moments of our lives.” I chuckle bitterly.

  “At least you admit I was meaningful,” she attempts to regain some of her dignity.

  “You were, in the past. In the present you are absolutely meaningless to me.”

  “We’ll see about the future.” I find it inconceivable that despite everything I’d just said; she still believes we might somehow get back together. What more do I need to say to make her realize that I despise her, that I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole?

  “You and I have no future together. I promise you that.”

  “Did Bubble begin showing the future, as well?” she asks mockingly.

  “No. Still just the past. But by now I’ve see
n it so many times, and each time I’ve felt the same, again and again – betrayed, foolish and bursting with hatred for you.”

  The cameras turn on and swing back in our direction. We both shift and straighten in our couches. She wears a false smile that reveals nothing of the harsh words I’d just said to her.

  “Welcome back, viewers,” she aims a similar smile at the cameras.

  “We are honored to have with us Mr. Kim Ji-Yon, the son of Kim Ji-Suk, founder of Bubble. If you aren’t living under a rock, chances are that you use Bubble frequently to preserve life’s important memories. It’s how to remember what life was like before we had this ability, which we all owe to the vision and brilliance of one man: Kim Ji-Suk.” She claps emphatically and out of respect for my father, I join her.

  “In recent years, use of Bubble has become more and more commonplace. You must be extremely proud of your father for conceiving the idea. Perhaps you could tell the viewers – how did it all begin, really?” Another false smile.

  “My father worked in brain research for many years, mapping and translating motion patterns in the brain to a complex algorithm capable of accurately recording thoughts, feelings and sensations experienced at a certain moment. This record allows us to watch the event, like watching a movie, but also to feel what we felt back when it had originally transpired. Essentially, to reexperience the past.

  “When my father first came up with the idea, he was mocked by his colleagues at the university. They thought he was delusional, that his ideas belonged in the realm of science fiction, that it would never happen in reality. I assume they regret those statements now – I don’t suppose any of them still uses video cameras to document their memories,” I take the opportunity to poke at anyone who denounced my father’s work back then.

  “Video cameras - how nostalgic! I think many of our younger viewers might have no idea what those even were,” she laughs artificially and places both hands over her mouth, hiding perfect teeth.

  “Before Bubble, you could only record the external event, and the passage of time would blur the emotions you experienced during those moments. Today, thanks to Bubble, you can recall your exact feelings at the time the original memory was created and stored.” I look at her and know that no further words are necessary. I remember exactly what she did to me – this is why I can never forgive her.

  “Do you know that some people use Bubble more than ten times a day? Any thoughts on the matter?”

  “I envy the users who have ten significant experiences daily. Most of us aren’t that fortunate.”

  “Perhaps you could tell our viewers – how often do you record memories on Bubble?”

  The last record I took was four years ago. I have no desire to share this information with the viewers, and certainly not with her.

  “It varies. I only record meaningful events,” I elegantly avoid providing her with a direct answer.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  A personal question? I don’t like the new direction she’s taking. I only agreed to this interview in the first place under the condition that I wouldn’t be questioned about my personal life. I hate it when people try to pick through my dirt.

  Why is it so warm in here? I feel cooked by the lighting. My tie is strangling me and suddenly I’m dying to tear it off. I know how bad it would look if I refuse her request. Lacking any real choice in the matter, I nod, but shoot her a warning glance to hopefully stop her from going too far.

  “Our viewers would love to know you better: to know where you’ve been living these last few years, what your hobbies are – if you have a girlfriend…?”

  I shoot her another glance. She replies with a small smile that informs me that she crossed the line intentionally. If that’s her game, she’ll get nothing but short, dry answers.

  Where had I been living? Hmm. I’m not sure I’d call it that – it didn’t really feel like living. In fact, at least in the beginning, it was absolute torture. I was furious with myself for my blindness, for failing to see what she’d been doing right under my nose. After catching her in bed with my best friend, I’d felt destructive; vengeful. I was torn between wanting to forget it all and wanting to remember every single detail.

  Bubble helped me remember; the alcohol helped me forget.

  I think I would’ve stayed lost, would still be lost now, if I hadn’t met Jeremy in Australia. He was raised in Korea until he was ten and was therefore fluent in Korean but had somehow absorbed nothing else from the Korean culture. Jeremy is a beast, of sorts – he has no interest in manners or etiquette, and he leads an existence of total moral apathy, according to a bizarre set of rules of his own design.

  I was in the depths of hell when I met Jeremy, and he was the one who helped me back out. The day I met him I came back to life, but it was a soulless, heartless, unconscionable existence. It felt like I’d sold my soul to the devil, and I didn’t care – there was no longer anyone in the world who I cared about.

  Around a year later, when my father demanded that I return to Korea, the last thing I wanted was to see his face – his, and my stepmother’s. We ended up compromising: I would devote my time and programming prowess to the development of Bubble, coding and improving the simulation system, and he would accept the fact that I would not be returning to Korea just yet.

  Someone clears their throat and I realize that she is still waiting for my reply, along with the viewers at home.

  “I was in Australia, mostly, doing work for Bubble,” I reply succinctly. She raises an eyebrow, obviously expecting a more detailed answer, especially considering the time I took with it.

  “Regarding hobbies: I enjoy traveling the world, diving, surfing, and sports in general.”

  “It certainly shows,” she sneaks in the compliment – a pathetic attempt at flirting. I assume she now expects me to say if I have a girlfriend.

  Why would I want one? I don’t understand – what good is a relationship? Another woman to see me as a walking ATM, another one to lie about loving me, another one to trust until I find out she’s cheating on me. Thanks, but—no thanks. I prefer my relationships with women to be like a no-obligation gym membership: burning calories with as little drama as possible.

  “I’m currently not in a relationship,” I reply tersely. Her eyes shine brightly at that – and I thought I’d been clear enough before.

  “In that case, you are officially Asia’s most eligible bachelor,” she giggles, and I look at her like I’m about to burn down the studio. She called me the most eligible bachelor in Asia and on live television. I can forget about any degree of anonymity I’d managed to enjoy and cultivate over the past four years.

  “Then maybe you could tip off our viewers on your taste in women?” her lips curl into a sly smile. My ideal woman does not exist in the actual world – she is insanely sexy but doesn’t upload bikini photos, she understands unhappiness but is joyful and full of life, she’s thin but understands that a salad isn’t food, she can have anyone but only wants me, she loves people but prefers to be alone with me. She would be twenty-five at the youngest, but most likely wasn’t born yet, and probably never will be.

  “I’ll know when I meet her,” I say, and her evident disappointment tells me she was hoping for a juicier answer.

  “Well, we’re just about out of time – anything else you’d like to tell the viewers back at home?”

  “Don’t record every moment in your lives. Create moments that are worth recording. Thank you.”

  It’s done. The cameras are off. I yank off the microphone and loosen my tie. She’d rummaged through my personal life despite expressly promising not to.

  “You were great,” she pats my shoulder. Who does she think she is? I’m amazed by her degree of self-involvement – she seems incapable of even realizing how furious I am.

  I don’t bother thanking her for the interview. I ge
t up and hurry out of the studio.

  A throng of women throws itself at me, shrieking, as I head out to the black Hyundai waiting for me. They soon become a hazard that I’m forced to traverse. I wonder exactly when they managed to get here as I clear a path through them, marching directly toward the open passenger door. I get into the car and ask the driver to take me out of there as quickly as possible.

  “Head straight to the hospital,” I tell him. “I want to see my father.” He’d better still be alive, because he and I have some loose ends to tie up before he expires.

  I lean my head back and close my eyes. The jet lag still echoes behind my temples. I rub them in an attempt to somewhat ease the pain.

  Why the hell did I agree to this stupid interview in the first place?

  But I remember why. Bubble’s PR team insisted that the stock would plummet if my father happens to die before I gain firm footing in the company. According to them, it was crucial that everyone in the country not only personally witness my return to Korea but become convinced that I am here to stay, and willing to take control of the company if necessary.

  I realize the car had stopped. I open my eyes, blinking, trying to understand what the fuss outside is about.

  Too many people are waiting at the hospital entrance, too many cameras. The throbbing in my temples grows sharper. I ask the driver to go around and drop me off at the back entrance. I hope to get inside without drawing the reporters’ attention but soon find that it simply cannot be done; not when you’re 6’2’’ and there are reporters lurking everywhere you look, eagerly searching specifically for you. Five overly-ambitious reporters run toward me, stopping several feet away. I acknowledge them with a nod and hurry to the elevator, whose doors thankfully open as I approach and swallow me inside. It’ll be easier now, I remind myself – at least the press is barred from the VIP room.

  I walk down the hallway leading to my father’s room. Two nurses are moving toward me, exchanging whispers, and I hear them mention the interview that had just aired. I don’t know when they could have seen it – shouldn’t they be working? They walk past me, giggling tactlessly.